I WILL now ask the reader to make a note of the passage
of a fortnight. By so doing he will find himself close
upon the 24th of June, — another memorable day in the
drama of the conquest.

'Tzin Guatamo, as is already known, had many times
proven himself a warrior after the manner of his country,
and, in consequence, had long been the idol of the army;
now he gave token of a ruling faculty which brought the
whole people to his feet; so that in Tenochtitlan, for the
first time in her history, were seen a sceptre unknown to the
law and a royalty not the king's.

He ruled in the valley everywhere, except in the palace
of Axaya'; and around that he built works, and set guards,
and so contrived that nothing passed in or out without his
permission. His policy was to wait patiently, and in the
mean time organize the nation for war; and the nation obeyed
him, seeing that in obedience there was life; such, moreover,
was the will of Huitzil'.

As may be thought, the Christians thus pent up fared
illy; in fact, they would have suffered before the fortnight
was gone but for the king, who stinted himself and his
household in order to divide with his keepers the supplies
sent in for his use.

In the estimation of the people of the empire, it was

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great glory to have shut so many teules in a palace, and held
them there; but the success did not deceive the 'tzin: in his
view, that achievement was not the victory, but only the
beginning of the war; every hour he had news of Malinche,
the real antagonist, who had the mind, the will, and the hand
of a warrior, and was coming with another army, more
numerous, if not braver, than the first one. In pure, strong
love there is an element akin to the power of prophecy, —
something that gives the spirit eyes to see what is to happen.
Such an inspiration quickened the 'tzin, and told him
Anahuac was not saved, though she should be: if not, the
conquerors should take an empty prize; he would leave them
nothing, — so he swore, — neither gods, gold, slaves, city, nor
people. He set about the great idea by inviting the New
World — I speak as a Spaniard — to take part in the struggle.
And he was answered. To the beloved city, turned into a
rendezvous for the purpose, flocked the fighting vassals of the
great caciques, the men of the cities, and their dependencies,
the calpulli, or tribes of the loyal provinces, and, mixed with
them, wild-eyed bands from the Unknown, the wildernesses,—
in all, a multitude such as had never been seen in the valley.
At the altars he had but one prayer, “Time, time, O
gods of my fathers! Give me time!” He knew the difference
between a man and a soldier, and that, likewise, between
a multitude and an army. As he used the word, time
meant organization and discipline. He not only prayed, he
worked; and into his work, as into his prayers, he poured
all his soul.

The organization was simple: first, a company of three or
four hundred men; next an army of thirty or forty companies, —
a system which allowed the preservation of the
identity of tribes and cities. The companies of Cholula, for
example, were separate from those of Tezcuco; while the
Acolmanes marched and fought side by side with the

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Coatopecs, but under their own chiefs and flags. The system also
gave him a number of armies, and he divided them, — one to
raise supplies, another to bring the supplies to the depots,
a third to prepare material of war; the fourth was the active
or fighting division; and each was subject to take the
place of the other. To the labor of so many hands, systematized
and industriously exerted, though for a fortnight,
almost everything is possible. One strong will, absolutely
operative over thousands, is nearer omnipotency than anything
else human.

The climate of the valley, milder and more equable than
that of Naples, permits the bivouac in all seasons. The
sierra west of the capital, and bending around it like a halfdrawn
bow, is marked on its interior, or city side by verdant
and watered vales; these were seized; and the bordering
cliffs, which theretofore had shaded the toiling husbandman,
or been themselves the scenes of the hunter's daring, now
hid the hosts of New World's men, in the bivouac, biding
the day of battle.

War, good reader, never touches anything and leaves it as
it was. And the daughter of the lake, fair Tenochtitlan,
was no exception to the law. The young master, having reduced
the question of strategy to the formula, — a street or
a plain, chose the street, and thereby dedicated the city to
all of ruin or horror the destroyer could bring. Not long,
therefore, until its presence could have been detected by the
idlest glance: the streets were given up to the warriors; the
palaces were deserted by families; houses conveniently
situated for the use were turned into forts; the shrubbery
garnishing roofs that dominated the main streets concealed
heaps of stones made ready for the hand; the bridges were
taken up, or put in condition to be raised; the canoes on the
lakes were multiplied, and converted to the public service;
the great markets were suspended; even the sacred temples

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were changed into vast arsenals. When the 'tzin, going
hither and thither, never idle, observed the change, he would
sigh, but say to himself, “'T is well. If we win, we can
restore; if we lose, — if we lose, — then, to the strangers,
waste, to the waters, welcome!”

And up and down, from city to bivouac and back again,
passed the minstrels, singing of war, and the pabas, proclaiming
the oracles and divine promises; and the services
in the temples were unintermitted; those in the teocallis
were especially grand; the smoke from its turrets overhung
the city, and at night the fire of Huitzil', a new star reddening
in the sky, was seen from the remotest hamlet in the
valley. The 'tzin had faith in moral effects, and he studied
them, and was successful. The army soon came to have,
like himself, but one prayer, — “Set us before the strangers;
let us fight!”

And the time they prayed for was come.

The night of the 23d of June was pleasant as night can be
in that region of pleasant nights. The sky was clear and
starry. The breeze abroad brought coolness to outliers on
the housetops, without threshing the lake to the disturbance
of its voyageurs.

Up in the northeastern part of the little sea lay a chinampa
at anchor. Over its landing, at the very edge of the
water, burned a flambeau of resinous pine. Two canoes,
richly decorated, swung at the mooring. The path from the
landing to the pavilion was carpeted, and lighted by lamps
pendent in the adjoining shrubbery. In the canoes the
slaves lay at rest, talking idly, and in low voices crooning
Indian songs. Close by the landing, on a bench, over which
swayed the leaves of an immense banana-tree, rested a
couple of warriors, silent, and nodding, as it were, to the
nodding leaves. From the rising to the setting of the day's

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sun, many a weary league, from the city to the vales of the
Sierra in which bivouacked the hope of Anahuac, had they
travelled, — Hualpa and Io'. One familiar with the streets
in these later days, at sight of them would have said,
“Beware! the 'tzin is hereaway.” The three were almost
as one, — so had their friendship grown. The pavilion, a
circular canopy, spread like a Bedouin's tent, was brightly
lighted; and there, in fact, was the 'tzin, with Tula and
Yeteve, the priestess.

Once before, I believe, I described this pavilion; and now
I know the imagination of the reader will give the floating
garden richer colors than lie within compass of my pen;
will surround it with light, and with air delicious with the
freshness of the lake and the exhalations of the flowers;
will hover about the guardian palm and willow trees, the
latter with boughs lithe and swinging, and leaves long and
fine as a woman's locks; will linger about the retreat, I
say, and, in thought of its fitness for meeting of lovers, admit
the poetry and respect the passion of the noble Aztec.

Within, the furniture was as formerly; there were yet the
carven stools, the table with its bowl-like top, now a mass
of flowers, a couch draped with brilliant plumage, the floor
covered with matting of woven grasses, the hammock, and
the bird-cage, — all as when we first saw them. Nenetzin
was absent, and alas! might never come again.

And if we enter now, we shall find the 'tzin standing a
little apart from Tula, who is in the hammock, with Yeteve
by her side. On a stool at his feet is a waiter of ebony,
with spoons of tortoise-shell, and some xicaras, or cups, used
for chocolate.

Their faces are grave and earnest.

“And Malinche?” asked Tula, as if pursuing a question.

“The gods have given me time; I am ready for him,”
he replied.

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“When will he come?”

“Yesterday, about noon, he set out from Tezcuco, by way
of the shore of the lake; to-night he lodges in Iztapalapan;
to-morrow, marching by the old causeway, he will re-enter
the city.”

“Poor, poor country!” she said, after a long silence.

The words touched him, and he replied, in a low voice,
“You have a good heart, O Tula, — a good heart and true.
Your words were what I repeat every hour in the day. You
were seeing what I see all the time —”

“The battle!” she said, shuddering.

“Yes. I wish it could be avoided; its conditions are
such that against the advantage of arms I can only oppose
the advantage of numbers; so that the dearest of all things
will be the cheapest. I must take no account of lives. I
have seen the streets run with blood already, and now, —
Enough! we must do what the gods decree. Yet the
slaughter shall not be, as heretofore, on one side alone.”

She looked at him inquiringly.

“You know the custom of our people to take prisoners
rather than kill in battle. As against the Tlascalans and
tribes, that was well enough; but new conditions require
new laws, and my order now is, Save nothing but the
arms and armor of the strangers. Life for life as against
Malinche! And I could conquer him, but —”

He stopped, and their glances met, — his full of fire, hers
sad and thoughtful.

“Ah, Tula! your woman's soul prompts you already of
whom I would speak, — the king.”

“Spare me,” she said, covering her face with her hands.
“I am his child; I love him yet.”

“So I know,” he replied; “and I would not have you do
else. The love is proof of fitness to be loved. Nature cannot
be silenced. He is not as near to me as to you; yet I feel the

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impulse that moves you, though in a less degree. In memory,
he is a part of my youth. For that matter, who does not love
him? He has charmed the strangers; even the guards at
his chamber-door have been known to weep at sight of his
sorrow. And the heroes who so lately died before his prison-gates,
did not they love him? And those who will die to-morrow
and the next day, what else may be said of them?
In arms here, see the children of the valley. What seek
they? In their eyes, he is Anahuac. And yet —”

He paused again; her hands had fallen; her cheeks glistened
with tears.

“If I may not speak plainly now, I may not ever.
Strengthen yourself to hear me, and hear me pitifully. To
begin, you know that I have been using the king's power
without his permission, — that, I say, you know, and have
forgiven, because the usurpation was not of choice but necessity,
and to save the empire; but you will hear now, for the
first time probably, that I could have been king in fact.”

Her gaze became intent, and she listened breathlessly.

“Three times,” he continued, “three times have the caciques,
for themselves and the army, offered me the crown.
The last time, they were accompanied by the electors,* and
deputations from all the great cities.”

“And you refused,” she said, confidently.

“Yes. I will not deny the offer was tempting, — that for
the truth. I thought of it often; and at such times came
revenge, and told me I had been wronged, and ambition,
whispering of glory, and, with ready subtlety, making acceptance
appear a duty. But, Tula, you prevailed; your love
was dearer to me than the crown. For your sake, I refused
the overture. You never said so, — there was no need of
the saying, — yet I knew you could never be queen while
your father lived.”

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Not often has a woman heard such a story of love, or
been given such proofs of devotion; her face mantled, and
she dropped her gaze, saying, —

“Better to be so loved than to be queen. If not here, O
'tzin, look for reward in the Sun. Surely, the gods take
note of such things!”

“Your approval is my full reward,” he replied. “But hear
me further. What I have said was easy to say; that which
I go to now is hard, and requires all my will; for the utterance
may forfeit not merely the blessing just given me, but
your love, — more precious, as I have shown, than the crown.
You were in the palace the day the king appeared and
bade the people home. The strangers were in my hand at
the time. O, a glad time, — so long had we toiled, so many
had died! Then he came, and snatched away our triumph.
I have not forgotten, I never can forget the disappointment.
In all the labor of the preparation since, I have
seen the scene, sometimes as a threat, sometimes as a warning,
always a recurring dream whose dreaming leaves me less
resolved in the course I am running. Continually I find
myself saying to myself, `The work is all in vain; what
has been will be again; while he lives, you cannot win.'
O Tula, such influence was bad enough of itself. Hear now
how the gods came in to direct me. Last night I was at
the altar of Huitzil', praying, when the teotuctli appeared,
and said, `'Tzin Guatamo, pray you for your country?' `For
country and king,' I answered. He laid his hand upon my
shoulder, `If you seek the will of the god with intent to do
what he imposes, hear then: The king is the shield of the
strangers; they are safe while he lives; and if he lives, Anahuac
dies. Let him who leads choose between them. So the
god says. Consider!' He was gone before I could answer.
Since that I have been like one moving in a cloud, seeing
nothing clearly, and the duty least of all. When I should be

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strongest, I am weakest. My spirit faints under the load. If
the king lives, the empire dies: if it is to die, why the battle,
and its sacrifices? This night have I in which to choose;
to-morrow, Malinche and action! Help me, O Tula, help me
to do right! Love of country, of king, and of me, — you
have them all. Speak.”

And she answered him, —

“I may not doubt that you love me; you have told me
so many times, but never as to-night. I thank you, O 'tzin!
Your duties are heavy. I do not wonder that you bend under
them. I might say they are yours by gift of the gods, and
not to be divided with another, not even with me; but I will
give you love for love, and, as I hope to share your fortunes,
I will share your trials. I am a woman, without judgment
by which to answer you; from my heart I will answer.”

“From your heart be it, O Tula.”

“Has the king heard the things of which you have
spoken?”

“I cannot say.”

“Does he know you were offered the crown?”

“No; the offer was treason.”

“Ah, poor king, proud father! The love of the people,
that of which you were proudest, is lost. What wretchedness
awaits you!”

She bowed her head, and there was a silence broken only
by her sobs. The grief spent itself; then she said, earnestly, —

“I know him. He, too, is a lover of Anahuac. More
than once he has exposed himself to death for her. Such
loves age not, nor do they die, except with the hearts they
animate. There was a time — but now — No matter, I
will try. `Let him who leads choose': was not that the
decree, good 'tzin?”

“Yes,” he replied.

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“Must the choice be made to-night?”

“I may delay until to-morrow.”

“To-morrow; what time?”

“Malinche will pass the causeway in the cool of the
morning; by noon he will have joined his people in the old
palace; the decision must then be made.”

“Can you set me down at the gate before he passes in?”

The 'tzin started. “Of the old palace?” he asked.

“I wish to see the king.”

“For what?”

“To tell him the things you have told me to-night.”

“All?”

“Yes.”

His face clouded with dissatisfaction.

“Yes,” she continued, calmly; “that, as becomes a king,
he may choose which shall live, — himself or Anahuac.”

So she answered the 'tzin's appeal, and the answer was
from her heart; and, seeing of what heroism she dreamed,
his dark eyes glowed with admiration. Yet his reply was
full of hopelessness.

“I give you honor, Tula, — I give you honor for the
thought; but forgive me if I think you beguiled by your
love. There was a time when he was capable of what you
have imagined. Alas! he is changed; he will never choose,—
never!”

She looked at him reproachfully, and said, with a sad
smile, “Such changes are not always of years. Who is he
that to-night, only to-night, driven by a faltering of the
will, which in the king, my father, is called weakness,
brought himself prayerfully to a woman's feet, and begged
her to divide with him a burden imposed upon his conscience
by a decree of the gods? Who is he, indeed?
Study yourself, O 'tzin, and commiserate him, and bethink
you, if he choose not, it will be yours to choose for him.

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His duty will then become yours, to be done without remorse,
and —”

She hesitated, and held out her hand, as if to say, “And
I can love you still.”

He caught the meaning of the action, and went to her,
and kissed her forehead tenderly, and said, —

“I see now that the heart can be wiser than the head.
Have your way. I will set you down at the gate, and of
war there shall be neither sign nor sound until you return.”

“Until I return! May be I cannot. Malinche may hold
me prisoner.”

From love to war, — the step was short.

“True,” he said. “The armies will await my signal of
attack, and they must not wait upon uncertainties.”

He arose and paced the floor, and when he paused he
said, firmly, —

“I will set you down at the gate in the early morning,
that you may see your father before Malinche sees him.
And when you speak to him, ask not if I may make the
war: on that I am resolved; but tell him what no
other can, — that I look forward to the time when Malinche,
like the Tonatiah, will bring him from his chamber,
and show him to the people, to distract them again.
And when you have told him that, speak of what the gods
have laid upon me, and then say that I say, `Comes he so,
whether of choice or by force, the dread duty shall be done.
The gods helping me, I will strike for Anahuac.' And if he
ask what I would have him do, answer, A king's duty to
his people, — die that they may live!”

Tula heard him to the end, and buried her face in her
hands, and there was a long silence.

“Poor king! poor father!” she said at last. “For me to
ask him to die! A heavy, heavy burden, O 'tzin!”

p733-468

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